The Fall of Them Both
by Amber Come Midnight
Summary: A used-to-be One-Shot fanfic, with a backstory. Post-Fall, Pre-Hearse. Johnlock shipping! Warning: You'd better find a blanket for shock, otherwise, they'll all be taken. Tissues may also be required. Welcome aboard the feels hearse (it isn't empty)! Also, a special thanks to Kostenlos, who wrote the letters by Sherlock, because she is my Sherlock. -JW
1. The Fall of Them Both

**_Author's Note: There is , in fact, a backstory to this. I was passing notes (being slightly immature) with my friend "Sherlock" (I happen to have aquired the name "Watson"). Every time we signed off as either -SH or -JW, in my case. It was a role play sheet of sorts, and I (Watson) suddenly mentioned being deployed in Afghanistan. It honestly killed Sherlock. I then wrote her the two letters mentioned in the story (they have been copied word for word from the originals I wrote to Sherlock), and sealed them in an envelope that said, "Sherlock Holmes 221B Baker Street, London, England". I handed them to Sherlock the next day, who (I kid you not) threw themself on the floor, and curled up into a ball, the letters clutched in hand. I found out some of my other friends had heard about and read the letters, for two were on the verge of tears, and three others beat me with books. Yes, some of you may need tissus, while others may need an open window through which to throw your device when you're done reading._**

* * *

**_Sherlock, 21 November, 2013_**

**_I'm sorry about my recent deployment to Afghanistan. I would've told you sooner, but I feared your reaction. I will miss the sounds of the violin floating upstairs at two in the morning, and the sound of bullets piercing the poor smiley face on the wall. Most of all, I will miss you and the exciting life I had shared with you at Baker Street. I know you've mentioned "alone" being your protection, so alone you shall be._**

**_John_**

**_P.S. Have I ever told you how brilliant you are? I probably have, and I believe you can solve cases without me, my sociopath. Oh- by the way, the cigarettes are in the seat cushion of your favourite chair, and Molly has your skull at Bart's, just in case you haven't found them, but you probably have, you smart man._**

They had sent the letter to Sherlock after they found it in the man's right breast pocket, perfectly clean. They had attached another letter as well.

**_Dear Mr. Holmes, 3 December, 2013_**

**_We are sorry to inform you that Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is deceased. We will send you his remaining belongings and money he left for you in his will. We are sorry for your loss._**

**_Harold Saxon, Prime Minister_**

**_Information about John Hamish Watson's death:_**

**_Date: 2 December, 2013_**

**_Time: 17:41_**

**_Location of Death: Afghanistan Base No. 221_**

**_Burial: Undecided_**

Sherlock clutched the letter tightly, crumpling the paper, and held it close to his chest. The closest thing he had to a friend was now dead. Sherlock's jaw locked as he tried to keep his composure, but he knew his emotions were getting the best of him. His vision became burry, and he reached out to pick up a battered leather covered journal. Sherlock opened the journal to the front inside cover to find a group of almost illegible scrawled words inside.

**_I'm sorry, Sherlock._**

Sherlock bit his lip, his heart even heavier than before as he continued to look through the journal. It was disappointingly empty. John hadn't left any memories for Sherlock to remember him by. Sherlock passed the last page, and on the back inside cover, was another group of almost illegibly scrawled words.

**_I'm sorry, Sherlock._** Was the same as the inside front cover, but this time, another phrase followed.

**_My story must end._**


	2. The Crumbling of Sherlock

Sherlock refused to eat, sleep, or even move too terribly much. He had taken on a case the day after receiving the letters and had finished it with ease. Dull. Boring. He sat on his favourite couch, memories of his and John's adventures. His phone pinged, and he reluctantly pulled it from his pocket. It was Lestrade.

_His ashes are in a vase at the memorial site up north._

Sherlock's elbows were on his knees, and his face in his palms. The closest thing he'd had to a friend was reduced to nothing more than ashes.

For the first time in hours, Sherlock rose from the couch. He scrolled through his and John's old messages as he did so.

_Have you seen my cane or gun? I have a feeling you're the culprit._

Sherlock smiled sadly. The text was sent on the seventh of November, just days before John had been deployed. Sherlock still had both of the objects hidden, and decided to retrieve one. He leaned down to glimpse underneath the cluttered coffee table, where the gun was masterfully taped. He removed it without much effort involved, and placed it lightly atop the clutter on the table.

From under the mess on the table, a glinting caught Sherlock's eye. He pulled out one of his clean silver scalpels, and set it next to the gun. He then found a blank sheet of paper, and started writing.

**_My dear doctor, 221B grows lonely without you. Mrs. Hudson does what she can, but I fear it isn't working. My life has lost its meaning, dear Watson, since you left, cases or not. I don't even have a grave to visit you at. The military cremated you, and keep the ashes at the memorial site up north. Mycroft doesn't trust me to go alone, and I haven't the courage to ask him to take me. My cowardice shames me. Since I can't talk to you, I'm leaving a note. That's what people do, right? Leave notes. I'm sorry John; this is the end of my book. You left your gun behind. I thought that would be easiest. Don't worry, I'll see you soon. Don't wait up for me. –SH_**

Sherlock set the scalpel down, glancing at the note written in blood red, before looking to his gashed wrist, oozing warm, sticky blood. He then dismissed his wrist, and folded up the note. He paused briefly to pick the scalpel back up and scrawl 'John' messily on the outside of the folded note, before reaching for the gun.

* * *

**_Author's Note: Yes, the note he wrote came from "Sherlock" (my friend) in reply to my (Watson's) death. I, however came up with the note being written in his blood. My friend suggested we colour-code our notes (we write in coloured pens). I'd written Watson's letter to Sherlock in navy blue, and they replied with the note in red. They suggested using purple or green for Sherlock instead. "No." I had replied. "Leave it blood red. Maybe Sherlock went emo and used his blood to write the note." My friend (yet again, I kid you not) collapsed and curled up in a ball, unsuccessfully trying to fight the feels. Thus, Sherlock writing in blood was born. Sorry if it killed you like it did "Sherlock"._**


	3. The Attempt to Stop

He sat at the desk in the office at Buckingham Palace, and watched Sherlock write the note in his blood. _No, Sherlock!_ His mind screamed. However, he could do nothing about it. Well... he picked up a blood red felt tip pen from a cup on the desk, and reached for a piece of parchment.

**_Sherlock, 5 December, 2013_**

**_You realise your emotions are getting the best of you. You know I found out about the letter. I worry about you, Sherlock. You've been shaking immensely, smoking more than usual, refusing to eat, and clutching the skull from your mantle until your knuckles are lacking blood flow. I read the part in the letter mentioning the gun. If you would just think for a moment without your emotions distracting you! John's been gone for three days and you're already giving up? People die every day. You've said so yourself. What is one more death? John would be disgraced to see you in such a state. Get your act together, Sherlock Holmes._**

**_Mycroft_**

**_John is closer than he may seem._**

He neatly folded the letter, and found an envelope to place it in. He sealed the letter in, and wrote Sherlock's name in large cursive, making sure to smear the red felt tip pen's ink in the loops of his name for a dramatic effect. He headed out of the office, and handed the letter to a man in a neatly pressed suit and tie, who was sitting in a nearby chair, enjoying tea.

"Take this to Sherlock." He said to the familiar man he now trusted whole-heartedly.

How could he not trust the man? He knew Sherlock's every move.


	4. Delivering Shots

Sherlock had received the letter not ten minutes after he'd written his good-bye note. The post man had buzzed, and Mrs. Hudson was sent to fetch the letter for Sherlock. He'd been thinking about John, and just as he'd placed the end of the gun under his chin, Mrs. Hudson walked in through the always open door, before chastising him about how suicide was a horrible life choice. She had then given him the letter and left him alone once more. He had finished reading the letter, and he was furious.

**_Mycroft, you don't understand. There is nothing in this world that you love. I didn't know people like us could love, until I met him. Look at how I am, now that he is gone. Would you rather my lowly existence continue like this? Let me go._**

**_-SH_**

Sherlock felt like shooting something, so he picked up the gun and shot the wall with the fading yellow smiley face sprayed on. Bullets pierced the face, and he made sure to leave one bullet left for himself.

How could Mycroft be so harsh? This was _John _he was speaking of. He usually had more respect. Although Sherlock knew his brother was watching him sulk and mope about, he could at least have _some_ respect for his dead colleague. His one friend.

Sherlock messily scrawled Mycroft's name onto the outside of the folded note. He lifted the letter to see Mycroft's name engraved into the polished wood coffee table, and angrily jabbed the pen he was using at the engraved name. Snapping the tip and sending blue gel ink across the nearby messy paper stacks upon the table, he then grabbed hold of his gun once more. He then pondered whether he should shoot himself through the temple, or under the chin.


	5. Not Who You Think

_What the hell, Sherlock? _He thought angrily as he watched the surveillance. _God. Why are you being so thick? Well, thick for you. _He found another sheet of paper and wrote a reply once more in the red felt tipped pen. He quickly glanced up at the video surveillance of Sherlock to see him fiddling with the gun. Quickly, he wrote a letter in reply.

**_Sherlock,_**

**_You're false. I do love someone very much, and that is you. However, that is beside the point. You need to learn to let go. I would try to say something to try to change your mind about ending your life, but you know very well that I'm a Holmes child, and Holmeses and apologies tend not to meld well._**

**_Like I wrote last time, you need to think without your emotions getting in the way. Tisk, tisk, little brother. Did you ever stop to think? Of course you didn't, because of your emotions. You're like a pregnant woman with raging hormones with all of that emotion diluting your brain. Why wouldn't they hold a funeral or let you see your dead flatmate's body? That's right, think that through. Hopefully you've caught on, dear brother. There are two possible explanations: Either John is, in fact, in the vase of ashes at the memorial site, or he's thriving, but hiding out. Due to the emotions overwhelming you or the fact that you're naturally bull-headed, you will refuse to believe the second explanation I offered. Think about it, though, John could be alive. You may be killing yourself for nothing. At least consider the idea, Sherlock._**

**_Mycroft_**

**_John may be closer than you think._**

_A pregnant woman with raging hormones? Mycroft would never say anything like that! _He thought, and he gave the letter to the man still sipping tea outside of the office. The familiar face was slightly distraught, similar to Sherlock's, and he could see how this familiar face and Sherlock were brothers.

* * *

**_Author's Note: Well, there's the plot twist! Yes, the man outside of the office is Mycroft. If that's Mycroft, who's the man taking the time to rip Sherlock apart piece by piece by posing as Mycroft? Only one person knows the mysterious person... if you think you know who it is, just use the lovely box below!_**


	6. Deducing the Poser

_What the hell?_ Thought Sherlock. _Who is writing to me?_ His mind was not only fuzzy from lack of sleep, food, and John, but also from not having anything to do. He moved from his favourite chair to grab three Nicotine patches from the kitchen, before returning to the chair to enter his Mind Palace. As he placed the patches onto his arm, he pictured the letter in his head. It obviously wasn't Mycroft writing, because he almost never wrote to Sherlock. The tilt of the hand, the pressure, and the colour choice also stated that Mycroft was not, in fact writing. Then again, Mycroft _did_ like the colour red, although hadn't written with it in a while, but he also hadn't written Sherlock, so he wasn't sure. How did they know of the letters? Surveillance was the most obvious answer, but only Mycroft had the cameras and the ability to watch over Sherlock, and the footage and information was at Buckingham Palace.

Who knew Mycroft well enough to be allowed into Buckingham Palace, or who had the technology to hack the footage?

Sherlock searched for yet another sheet of paper, and began to write.

**_That isn't Mycroft's writing. The tilt of the hand and the pressure are off. You may be writing in his colour, but you can't fool me. I'm still on top of my game._**

**_-SH_**

Who would play as Mycroft in such a bitter way, almost throwing Sherlock over the edge? One probable answer came into mind.

Moriarty.


	7. Following the Deductions

He read the note, and felt slightly offended when Sherlock had written '_you can't fool me_'. Sherlock had no idea who was writing, and so far, the probability that he even wrote the letters would have not even crossed Sherlock's mind. _Oh Sherlock, it's rather obvious. You're seeing, but not observing as well as you used to. Your senses seem to have dulled because of his death. Just move on already._

He sighed as he began writing yet another letter. _Sherlock should've deduced by now that I can't text_ _unless I use Mycroft's phone, which will never happen. Would it be a stereotype if I assumed all Holmes boys can't be separated from their mobiles?_ He shook his head sadly. _Now I must reveal my identity, and then he'll hunt me down and shoot me. Too bad he can't since I know they're on my trail..._

He finished writing the letter and printed Sherlock's name neatly across the envelope before sealing it and heading out of the office. Mycroft stood waiting, swinging his umbrella lazily, before walking in long strides next to him down to the waiting cab outside. _Damn them both. _He thought. _They know very well I can't keep up with their long strides._

* * *

**_Author's Note: You now have all the clues. Now, who is posing as Mycroft? If you think you know, answer in the box below!_**


	8. Last Guess and Sudden Sentimentality

Sherlock received the next letter within the next half hour after he wrote the note._ Took them long enough. This must be the confession letter; otherwise, it wouldn't have taken this long. _He had begun opening the letter when he paused. Moriarty was obviously not the letter sender if this is, in fact, a confession, unless he was feeling rather ostentatious, which he usually is. Moriarty was still in the picture... He opened the envelope, and unfolded the letter.

**_Sherlock,_**

**_I hardly believe you're "on your game", Sherlock. You didn't seem to notice before, Sherlock Holmes. Get a hold on your life. Yes, you are right. I am not, in fact, Mycroft. I lack the over-all formality he possesses and I am too straightforward. So, Sherlock, who am I, and how do I now of John's death? You are already aware of who I am. Shall I loose the formality?_**

_Did _he know who was writing? He knew now it wasn't Moriarty, because Moriarty is just as capable of formality as Mycroft. He remembered back to one of the earlier letters.

_'There are two possible explanations: Either John is, in fact, in the vase of ashes at the memorial site, or he's thriving, but hiding out'. If_ John was alive and hiding out, who would he trust to be writing these letters? Sherlock managed a half smile as he knew who the sender was, before continuing to read.

**_I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll tell you how I did it, but you probably already know. They weren't lying about the letter in my breast pocket. However, I wasn't dead, I'd passed out. I was then held captive by "Terrorists", so the military said I'd been shot, so you wouldn't endanger yourself trying to find me. Of course by military, I mean Irene Adler. Turns out Moriarty had been tracking me ever since I was deployed. Probably wanted to kill me in action._**

**_I am not going to tell you where I am "deployed", in fear of what you'll do to me, just now finding out I'm alive as well as seeing the current physical condition I'm in. Plus the fact that Moriarty still seems to be still trying to find me. I will hopefully see you soon._**

**_John_**

His physical condition? He was with Mycroft at Buckingham Palace. How could he be affected with that top security? Sherlock then remembered that this was _Moriarty_ they were talking about. If Moriarty was tracking him, he would want to stay rather close to Mycroft, and they would be on the run. He decided to think up a letter in his head, in fear of someone such as Mycroft coming across the footage, but still wanted to reply to John.

_My dear doctor. _Dear? Well, he was feeling rather sentimental...

_Dear Watson, I would never do anything to you. Maybe kiss you, or more._ Had he actually ever hugged John? Most likely not since he needn't worry about his flatmate's well-being until now. He thought to what Molly always says to him at the Christmas get-togethers he and John host.

"You need to get a girlfriend, Sherlock. Out of all of your friends, you're the only one who's the Virgin of Kisses!"

Sherlock usually replied with some snide remark about not having friends, but only mere acquaintances. He now realized that wasn't completely true. The word friend in the Oxford Dictionary said that the definition of a friend is: a person you know well and like. Sherlock had always thought differently, but knowing John had made Sherlock recognize the dictionary's definition as true.

_I don't think I have to tell you to trust Miss Adler. And I won't pressure you to tell me your location, for I can almost tell._

_-SH_

Where was the closest place to Buckingham Palace that could be used to hide? What does Moriarty want from John? Sherlock sighed, and dismissed all other thoughts. He lay down on the couch to access his Mind Palace one last time before John came back to the flat, and the dreadful, eternal silence was broken.


	9. The Message

**_Author's Note: This is the chapter where you may require that corner that I mentioned in the summary, or a tissue or three._**

* * *

John knew this was going to happen. He had been dropped off by Mycroft, and by the time the cab had driven safely out of sight, his hands were bound. Someone had then proceeded to knock him out and drag him into the abandoned warehouse near where he was dropped off. He was now bloody and bruised after a brutal interrogation, and had a revolver pressed to his temple.

He glanced up at the male holding the gun, who grinned maliciously. His eyes sparkling with triumph, he nodded to John to make the call. John's restraints were loosened and he reached for his phone. He dialled, his fingers shaking, and then put the mobile up to his ear.

"H-have I ever t-told you how brilliant...you...are?" John trailed off after the gunman jabbed his temple warningly with the nozzle to get on with it.

"They're going to find you by tracking you from your-"

John's windpipe was cut off by the gunman pinning him between the floor and his riding crop. His restraints were once more tightened, and the phone fell with a clatter next to his face. John would never betray Sherlock, and was _not_ going to deliver the gunman's message. He lashed out against the riding crop and restraints, momentarily freeing himself of the man.

"-phone!" John gasped, regaining his breath, and finishing his sentence. He grabbed the mobile and realized this would possibly be his last time to say something to Sherlock.

"Good-bye, Sher-"

He was once more cut off by the riding crop, and though he struggled, it got him nowhere. The gunman quickly pinned him down with one of his large black combat boots, before placing the gun to John's temple and pulling the trigger. The shot rang out, and John stopped struggling. Blood pooled around his head, and it stained the shoulders and back of his beige jumper. His blonde hair became caked, also, and his face was forever frozen in panic and struggle.

The gunman bent down next to his victim, prying the mobile from his still slightly warm fingers to hit the 'End Call' button, ending the voicemail.

John never got to truly say good-bye to Sherlock, or even hear his baritone voice one last time.


	10. Misheard and Shards from the Soul

When Sherlock returned to 221B, he wasn't in a terrible mood. Moments after he'd entered his Mind Palace, Lestrade had texted and asked him to take up a case. Of course, with his massive intellect, he'd finished within the hour. During the hour, he'd insulted Anderson's ignorance the whole time, which eased the time waiting for John's return.

He shed his coat and scarf, and checked his mobile for messages. There was only one: Blocked Number. He hit the play button, and listened intently. The phone dropped. Thankfully it hit a carpet, not shattering against the hardwood floor. Sherlock sank to his knees next to the mobile, running his fingers through his silky, untamed locks.

Mycroft found him there two days later. Sherlock hadn't moved from that spot, nor position. Mycroft picked up the mobile, and listened to the voicemail. He patted his brother's shoulder in sympathy, and made his way to the door after saying he would send Lestrade in a bit. Sherlock stopped him with a croaking voice.

"It wasn't me he was saying good-bye to."

With that, Mycroft left.

* * *

_**Author's Note: I probably should haved warned you to find your corner and get your tissues for this one as well. You may be wondering about what Sherlock meant by, "It wasn't me he was saying good-bye to." Sherlock thought that when John was uttering his final good-bye that he was starting to say "Mycroft" not, "Sherlock". Mycroft left to get Lestrade for his broken brother, because his brother was fading from the world, so it seemed. My apologies for shattering you internally.**_

_**Thank you to Kostenlos, my Sherlock, and I must apologise for butchering this ending she originally wrote to pieces.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed The Fall of Them Both (although when I say it like that, it sounds like I'm hoping you watched John get killed and Sherlock die internally).**_


End file.
